Merope (fiction, 500 words)

My creative writing class prompt was to write about the rituals that evolve when you are trying to survive in isolation. Here's my 500 words.

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I got wearily out of the bunk, folded it into the wall and stuffed the bag into the sanitizer. My daily checklist was on a clipboard because there was something tactile about pencils that I didn’t get from a tablet. They say that knowing what you like and sticking with it is the key to these long periods on the watchtowers.

Khaliunaa was already at the watch station, as usual smelling of flowers, a remarkable feat since we were three and a half million miles from earth. Whatever perfume she’d smuggled on board had lasted – what? I was losing track of time. More than eleven months. At first I’d considered objecting. Some people are allergic to fragrances, I considered saying. It’s antisocial, I imagined myself arguing. But getting on with your team-mate is the key to these long periods on the watchtowers. And anyway, it covered up the smell from the food preparation area. (The food itself was perfectly seasoned, designed to keep us lonely crew members relatively satisfied on these long, tedious tours. The lingering smell was not lovely.)

The watch station was in the center of the cupola, where you could observe the stars slowly rotate around you. Occasionally, dim pepperoni-red Mars or bright coral Jupiter would appear for a stately procession outside the glass. The instruments, of course, did all the watching, but Mission Command had psychologists by the truckload, and they had advocated for a big, wide, panoramic window to keep the inhabitants sane. The instruments could detect the signature of a rocket engine tens of astronomical units away. Millions of miles before a person could see a flare.

Khaliunaa, too, had a checklist – hers was on a tablet – because a checklist to keep you mentally moving forward is the key to these long periods on the watchtowers. I swear the first item on hers, because she says something like it every morning, is her little joke. She spotted me and prepared to say it.

“Hey, Kareem, can you see something moving – there – across the Pleiades?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” I said, fumbling with the squishy plastic packaging of a breakfast. I’d gotten bored with the formerly astonishing sight of the constellations months ago and didn’t look up.

“I mean it this time.”

“Sure you do.” I munched the vanilla granola, trying to keep the noise down because getting on with your team-mate is the key to these long periods on the watchtowers.

“Kareem? We have to alert Mission Command.”

Unnerved, I looked at my instrument display. There was nothing hot out there. Maybe she’d spotted a comet? Not unheard of. I grabbed a bar and pulled myself up into the cupola. My eyes tracked across the constellations to the bright blue throng of the Pleiades. The beautiful Seven Sisters of legend shone brightly. Then there were six. Then seven. Something had briefly eclipsed Merope.

Something coasting in.

Then the unknown body flared red. A rocket engine had fired.

Klaxons blared across the watchtower. 

Battle stations.

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